


Toast the snow that fell

by sour



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Oh wow, Porn Battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-20
Updated: 2013-01-20
Packaged: 2017-11-26 06:10:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/647430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sour/pseuds/sour
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Time passes slowly in the Shire, and it's Afteryule when Bilbo finds hope again.</p><p>prompts taken: home, return, heart, visits, slow</p>
            </blockquote>





	Toast the snow that fell

**Author's Note:**

> Ran out of character room; had to post the full-length fic here. If you're coming from the porn battle entry on Dreamwidth, you can ctrl+f "hot to the touch" to find where it left off.

The pantry fills. Bilbo settles. The year grows late and dawdles into the next, and so do the mornings and long afternoons in his smial—cozy, familiar, and dull as dust.

The kettle sees a regular business with the teapot, and if the collection of leaves and blends has become more varied since Bilbo’s imprudent expedition toward the Lonely Mountain, his guests do not comment. They are complacent, polite, simple folk, and Bilbo finds himself daily wishing for something to _happen_ —something to make teacups fly from their saucers, or to scuff up his carpet beyond repair.

-

The whistle comes just as the bell rings. _This had better not be Odo Proudfoot with that blasted screeching fauntling again_ —but as he opens the door, his readied response dies.

His mouth opens and closes and opens again—and he only manages a surprised clack of his teeth. Bofur laughs, sweeps off his hat, and bows low. “Bofur.”

“Bofur—”

“At your service.”

“But it’s been years—”

“Didn’t think I’d be back for a visit?”

He grabs at Bofur’s coat—the same modest, hard-wearing brown one he’d known on their voyages to Erebor—the same one that had been thrown over his shoulders when the going in Mirkwood got too dim and disheartening—and tugs him inside. Bofur steps over the threshold with considerably more dexterity this time than the last.

“Lovely place, I always thought. You clean it up a bit?”

“Yes. Well.” Bilbo lets go of his coat. “Left it a bit of a mess, didn’t you?”

“Suppose I did. Thought a tidying was long overdue, but I see it’s taken care of.”

“Yes,” Bilbo says again, then mentally shakes himself. “How did you—didn’t you have trouble along the way? Did you come alone?”

“Ahh, we’ve been this side of Weathertop a while. Gone to the Blue Mountains. Bifur and Bombur are there now—we left friends behind, you see, and they’re not all keen on Erebor.”

“That’s a long journey.” He keeps his tone light, wondering if Bofur’s friends are the sort he’d rip his tunic for. It makes sense, of course, that Bofur would know many people Bilbo didn’t know about—all the same, Bofur has trekked down the Great East Road for a number of strange dwarves, and not him, and has already passed through the Shire. And who could be so important to him in the Blue Mountains that it has taken him so long—Bilbo clamps down on that thought immediately and shoves it into an imaginary trunk.

“Yes,” Bofur says, but without his customary smile. There’s a look in his eyes that Bilbo doesn’t recognize—or he thinks he recognizes, but in all it seems to be one of those things that is better left unexamined. He locks that away too.

“Have a cup?”

“Thanks.”

As Bilbo fixes the tea, Bofur comes to stand next to him, helping himself to sugar. He begins to hum, feeling as though a candle has been lit in his heart, though he had not known just how dark it had gotten, and they drink their tea over the counter rather than sit like gentlefolk, at ease and comfortable.

Bilbo places his cup in his saucer, and Bofur does the same. And then everything becomes very close.

It happens so unexpectedly that Bilbo almost doesn’t register Bofur’s approach, and when Bofur’s lips meet his, he blinks in confusion. Bofur is warm all around him, from the finger gently stroking the shell of Bilbo’s ear to the breath that tickles his cheek. Something rears up in his chest, and something else squashes it down, and there are at least two other somethings running around confusedly with every little movement of Bofur’s lips.

It can’t possibly last more than a few seconds before Bofur pulls away, but Bilbo’s head is spinning, and the comfortable dark of his kitchen becomes dizzying. He pulls back and is suddenly aware that he’s breathing through his mouth, and faster than usual, too—and the question in Bofur’s eyes hasn’t left.

Bilbo clears his throat.

“I—err, I should think the Blue Mountains are beautiful at this time of... of the year.”

Bofur’s smile falters and he looks away, and the hope— _that_ was the expression that Bilbo could not place—the hope he had dared to bring with him plainly teeters and falls.

“It wasn’t so bad as you’re thinking,” Bofur says, but as Bilbo comes back to himself and takes in the cakes of mud now drying on Bofur’s boots, and the puddles of water where the snow has tracked in, and the conspicuous presence of a new weapon propped up in the entrance hall—a double-bit much more impressive than Bofur’s old stone-beaten mattock—a soreness seeps into his heart.

“I hope not,” he says faintly. Bofur looks at his boots, then back up at Bilbo, dimpling, and in that short moment, all signs of his disappointment seem to have disappeared.

“Well,” says Bofur, “well, I should—”

“Won’t you stay? And Bombur and Bifur, too? You could spare a day, couldn’t you?” asks Bilbo, all in a rush, and could kick himself as the pain returns to Bofur’s face despite a clearly valiant effort.

“I don’t think that I could.” In fact, he looks as though he’d rather be anywhere than here, and Bilbo thinks of the long way from Erebor, and how he’d told himself not to imagine any dwarf lass waiting in Ered Luin. His spirit sinks.

“Right,” he says, and looks away, swallowing. “I understand.”

-

Winter passes into spring, and the muttering in Hobbiton finally subsides, and Bilbo finds peace again. When he looks west, he sees little more than the White Downs, and he never looks for anything beyond. He does not wait for guests at dinner or supper, or listen for heavy bootsteps upon the patio, and he certainly does not daydream more than he ought—only after a good meal, or when there is a lot of washing up to do.

He is almost definitely not thinking of any adventures in particular when the knock comes, followed by a muffled chuckle that sets his heart a-pitter.

“Yes, coming,” he calls, fumbling with the tie on his dressing gown, as the bell rings—and rings once more—

“There, and that’s one for each,” he hears from beyond the door before he wrenches it open, and finds three dwarves on his doorstep. Two are smiling; one’s eyes are fixed with a glassy look. Bombur pats him on the arm, and makes his way inside without so much as a how-do-you-do, but Bilbo is too glad to care. Bifur, for his part, grabs Bilbo by the shoulders and is about to give him a friendly crack of the forehead but Bofur pulls him back just in time, ever mindful.

“Oi,” Bombur announces from the pantry. “Bofur! Cured ham!” And like that, Bofur steps into Bag End, all cheer and hat-flaps, and Bilbo has never been more grateful for the presumptuousness of dwarves.

-

They are indeed on their way back to Erebor, and though Bilbo insists that they stay more than a day, they have business in Bree (“It’s only for your sake we’re in Hobbiton still,” says Bofur; “the lads wouldn’t hear of passing by, you know.”) and a short stop in Staddle for pipe-weed, and then it’s off on the Great East Road. Bilbo thinks, more than once, of going with them, but he knows he would never be as comfortable under mountain as he is under hill.

The time passes too quickly, and soon dusk sets in. Smoke curls from pipe-bowl to ceiling in lazy spirals, filling the parlor with the strong scents of Southfarthing and Lindon Leaf. Every spare sheet and quilt goes toward the back room for Bombur and Bifur, and into the guest room for Bofur, and they sit talking enjoyably as the flames glow and crackle. Bilbo looks to Bofur in the dusky darkness, safe while Bofur is entranced by the fire, and if Bombur notices, he says nothing—there is only so much time to be had.

-

Long after his candle has been snuffed, Bilbo lies awake, thinking. The last time any number of dwarves had slept at Bag End, they’d stuffed his parlor full to bursting, and Bilbo had hidden away while the bone-rattling low notes of their chant echoed in his head. He hadn’t known then; neither of them could have known.

He throws off his blanket, feeling much too hot, and thinks of how the disquiet of Mirkwood slowly gave way to the soothing warmth of Bofur’s coat.

Of the helping hand—of the protective tug into closed ranks as elves and horses bore down upon them—of the pleading in Bofur’s eyes that night in the goblins’ trap-cave, the cheerful selflessness that followed, the mouth and fingers cleverly whittling a tune on his old tin whistle, and how they might do so again—it’s unusually warm, he thinks, for a mid-Thrimidge night, but the sun was long in setting, and he _is_ in the west-facing side of the smial. The guest room is too. He really ought to see if Bofur is comfortable.

Bilbo sits up at once, and, before he can tell himself to stop, sets his feet on the floor. There. It’s done. The decision is made.

He can find his way in the darkness into the west hall and to the guest room, but as he stops at the door—checking nervously in the crack—he sees that Bofur’s candle is still lit. _You’ve buttered your toast_ , he tells himself firmly, and knocks.

Seconds pass.

“Aye, Bilbo.”

“Well, I was just—I thought you might—can I come in?”

Dwarves are so much more solid and _physical_ than hobbits. That shouldn’t be a revelation, but Bilbo has spent months out of their company, and so when Bofur gets out of bed and goes to greet him in the doorway, Bilbo can track all his movements even over the pounding of his heart, deafening though it is. He keeps his eyes straight ahead, and when the door opens, he hopes that his discomfort doesn’t appear on his face.

“I don’t need an apology or aught,” Bofur begins right away, and though it sounds as if he’s chosen the words deliberately and run them over in his mind a hundred times, he still seems tense. “It’s I who should be makin’ one to you. And I’d rather not make a fool of myself over again, you understand, so—”

“No, no,” says Bilbo, feeling a little desperate. “I just thought you might—I wanted to know if you were...” he trails off, all ideas adrift.

“I won’t pretend it’s proper or natural,” Bofur continues, and there are tired shadows under his eyes. “But it’s how I feel, Bilbo, and I can’t help that now.” And Bilbo breathes deeply, remembering that he has faced down goblins, wargs, trolls, a dragon—

“I was mistaken before,” Bilbo says, rubbing his nose.

Bofur falls quiet, but that searching look is back again, and Bilbo takes heart.

“It’s been so long, you see. And when you came back, I didn’t know if I wanted to throw myself—into it—if that makes sense. I’d told myself I couldn’t sit and wait for another adventure. But I don’t for a moment think that I’d be in any danger with you.”

“You wouldn’t,” Bofur whispers, and Bilbo steps forward, puts his hands on Bofur’s shoulders, and kisses him.

-

Bilbo doesn’t want to think about how long it’s been since he’s last done this, but Bofur doesn’t seem to notice or mind. Each kiss tingles from his lips to his spine, somewhere between his shoulderblades. Bofur tastes pleasant—mildly spiced from the evening’s tea, and Bilbo senses a smidgen of a familiar mint.

Bofur is eager to undress him, and pulls at the tie of Bilbo’s dressing gown, but Bilbo stays his hand.

“Is it all right if we go slowly?”

“Of course,” Bofur says, spreading his hand over Bilbo’s ribcage, and the touch curls Bilbo’s toes. For a while they are content to simply bask on the sheets, absorbing each other’s warmth, and Bilbo prepares himself with small kisses over Bofur’s lips and chin until he is really too hot for the dressing gown, and tugs it off. Bofur is wearing the same modest grey pajamas as always, and they’re marvelously soft; Bilbo travels the textures of Bofur’s body through the cotton and finds that he is sensitive everywhere there is hair—which is, to Bilbo’s mind, most of him. Bofur strokes steadily over Bilbo’s chest, seeming to marvel at the lack of hair, and explores his back as well, finding it enjoyable to caress Bilbo’s hipbone and cause him to cry out.

“Bofur, please,” he says, and soon Bofur is completely nude and stretched out against him, and though the cotton of his pajamas was pleasant against Bilbo’s chest, the sensation of his softly-furred skin is better. Bilbo squeezes closer, craving more contact, and Bofur obliges.

Bofur is much larger, in the way that dwarves are proportioned in comparison to hobbits, but he doesn’t laugh at Bilbo or seem put off at all. It’s difficult to tell in the flickering candlelight, but his eyes appear darker and more heavy-lidded than usual, and the slow, exploring drag of his callused fingers from Bilbo’s shoulder to his hip feels quite pleasant. Bilbo kisses him, and again, more quickly, finding the prickle of his mustache intoxicating—and threads his fingers in Bofur’s hair, which smells of Lindon Leaf and soap. Bofur is content to lightly stroke and kiss him, and Bilbo thinks that he could do this until sunrise were it not for the slow build of an insistent need—one which Bofur stokes accidentally with his thigh, and then—Bilbo is sure that push is deliberate. Breathing through his nose becomes difficult, suddenly, and he pulls his burning face away.

“All right?”

“Yes. Yes, I just need a moment.”

“As long as you like,” says Bofur, and four different somethings in Bilbo’s chest do a synchronized somersault.

Having successfully gathered himself, he presses back in, angling for Bofur’s mouth but landing at its corner, and finds it just as pleasant. This way, he can hear Bofur talk, too, and he finds that the corner of Bofur’s mouth is just as lovely to kiss as the lips proper, and the path across his cheek to his ear is as beautifully sensitive.

“Ahh, that’s nice,” Bofur murmurs. “Just there.” Bilbo feels warm all over, especially with Bofur’s hands slowly kneading from his back downward, and Bofur’s length making itself known against his thigh. He kisses Bofur twice succinctly, and catches a last glimpse of his face—pleased, and very charming—before the candle goes out in a thin trail of smoke. Bofur takes Bilbo’s head in his hands and guides it downward for a leisurely kiss, and when they finally come apart Bilbo finds he’s growing accustomed to the darkness, and can just about make out the contrast of Bofur’s mustache and beard against his skin.

He lies on his side and pulls Bofur to rest half-over him, wriggling up so that they are face-to-face, and Bofur has access to his newly-bared chest—of which he takes quick advantage, humming with his lips against Bilbo’s nipple. His purr spreads arousal through Bilbo like a good black tea through clear water, and he manages to unclasp and loosen Bofur’s plaits, threading his fingers through the dark hair.

Bilbo settles back onto the bed with his heart pounding in his ears. Bofur takes his time with his hat until Bilbo insists that it is removed—and Dwarves _do_ wear so many layers, Bilbo thinks, it’s a wonder they’re not falling over from heat all the time, because Bofur is hot—very hot to the touch.

Perhaps it’s a dwarf thing, a way to stay warm under their mountains, but it would be much nicer were Bofur to stay under hill, where he wouldn’t need all of his over-things, or much more, really, than his under-things, if they’re not to go out for the day. The thought leaves Bilbo immediately because the ends of Bofur’s mustache are tickling his stomach and straying lower, down to—

“Oh!” he gasps. “Oh, Bofur, what—”

Bofur only hums again, sending a torment of vibration to the cock bobbing just beneath his chin. Bilbo hadn’t realized exactly how those curled ends could be useful, but now, he thinks, he may never again be able to look at them without flushing. But then there is Bofur’s mouth—and his tongue, which licks hot but leaves a cool wet stripe down to the insides of Bilbo’s thighs and prompts some embarrassingly high-pitched and needy noises—and he plants full-mouthed kisses to Bilbo’s cock, never backing too far away, and Bilbo doesn’t at all know what he’s saying, but he thinks that it must be some clear affirmation, or Bofur would never have figured out so quickly his most sensitive places.

Bilbo finds his hips held down by one hand and his cock grasped by the other, which makes things much easier for the both of them. Bofur never sinks too far down with his mouth (which is just as well, or Bilbo might rush to the end) but licks eagerly at the head, sometimes kissing and sometimes sucking with a strange swirling motion of his tongue, and once he has a pace established (halting and tentative though it is), Bofur’s the hand moves slowly up and down, as if Bilbo might be soothed by the regular motion.

Despite the steadying hand and the small voice of reason in his mind, Bilbo finds it increasingly difficult not to move his hips and propel himself all the way into Bofur’s mouth, and against all efforts he begins to twitch forward. Bofur makes a surprised noise around Bilbo’s cock and pulls back. When he speaks, his tone is so husky that Bilbo has to press his head against the pillow to keep himself back.

“Am I doin’ all right?”

“Yes,” Bilbo answers through the haze. “It’s perfect, you have—” Bofur gives him a smooth tug, upsetting the slow rhythm and causing Bilbo’s breath to catch; “— _no_ idea.”

It hardly strikes him as fair, though, and Bilbo releases the bedsheets—which he has been twisting unconsciously—to pull at Bofur’s shoulders, urging him upward.

When they find each other again, Bofur kisses him with such intensity that Bilbo moans, shivering at the new taste. The fur of Bofur’s stomach feels wonderful against his cock, and he moves his thighs forward to give Bofur something to rub against. His invitation is taken immediately, and though Bofur moves with measured deliberation, Bilbo can hear the urgency in his soft grunts. Shuffling down, he runs his fingers over Bofur’s shoulders and through the hair covering his chest, which causes the most delightful reactions—and he can move their hips together, which earns him a breathless “Bilbo!” and a gentle squeeze of his backside.

“Is this all right?” Bilbo asks, more to reassure himself than to really know, because the way Bofur is twitching and pumping against him gives him more assurance than he can ask for.

“Yes!” Bofur answers anyway, and Bilbo rests his face in the crook of Bofur’s neck, and kisses him there over and over again, clutching Bofur’s backside to get as close as he can. One of Bofur’s large hands sneaks between them and grasps him, and Bilbo groans, because he’s sure he won’t last, but Bofur doesn’t stop, and soon Bilbo is thrusting and shuddering, falling, shaking with the force of it, biting Bofur’s clavicle to muffle his voice.

When Bilbo comes back to himself, Bofur is brushing his knuckles up and down his spine.

“Nice, was it?”

“Mm,” Bilbo says thoughtfully. “But you... you still... oh, bugger, I hadn’t even thought about fetching the oil.”

“The oil?”

“I’ve read some things, you know,” Bilbo says, annoyed at his embarrassment. “And they could hardly stand to be less specific, but they all mentioned oil, and how important it is, and how it’s a bad idea to go without it.” He doesn’t add that he makes good use of the little pot of ointment at his bedside, though Bofur’s mouth has taken care of its usual purpose.

“Don’t alarm yourself.” Bofur’s easy laugh is more breathless than usual. “No need for that.”

“But I want to—I mean, I’d _like_ to... reciprocate.”

“Well,” says Bofur, voice deepening, “act as though you’ve got it, if you wouldn’t mind, Mr. Baggins.”

“Ah,” says Bilbo. He reaches down, but Bofur catches his hand up in his own, and Bilbo gapes as he licks it, slicking his tongue across Bilbo’s palm and even between his fingers before letting it go. At once he understands, and feels hot about the ears as he reaches for Bofur’s erection once more.

It feels lovely, heavy against his palm, hot, and a little slick at the tip. If Bilbo hadn’t already lost himself all over Bofur’s hand and stomach he’d be blushing furiously, but he decides, instead, to simply enjoy the sensation. Bofur doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands, and settles on stroking Bilbo’s hair in a distracted manner, mumbling words that comfort Bilbo despite their unfamiliar form. Bofur’s hips are rocking too, only slightly, and Bilbo encourages it with a little tug, wondering if he’d sounded anything like this.

“Ah, Bilbo, Bilbo—”

“Yes,” he says quietly, and Bofur’s breath comes in pants against his brow. It’s little more than Bilbo does for himself now and again, but somehow amazing, and Bilbo lets himself be caught in Bofur’s arms and thrust against. Bofur is moaning in his ear and there is an entire hearth full of fire in Bilbo’s heart when he keens roughly and comes.

Bilbo wipes his hand against his discarded nightgown—Bofur is warm enough that he can do without—and crawls into Bofur’s embrace with a contented sigh. Soon the Spring morning chill sets in, and Bofur gropes around for the comforter, pulling it over their shoulders. Bilbo is not sleepy at all, but Bofur’s breathing becomes deep and regular, and only the circling brush of his thumb on Bilbo’s shoulder reveals his wakefulness.

“It’s odd,” Bilbo says after a while. “I’ve only read about it, really. For menfolk, I mean. Hadn’t anyone but lasses until now.”

“I hope I haven’t given you cause to regret it.”

“Of course not. But—” Bilbo chews for a moment on his lip, and arranges his thoughts. “You didn’t want to do all of that... those other things?”

“With your oil? Oh, no,” Bofur says easily, and yawns. “Hardly got a wink last night from my nerves. Couldn’t have managed.”

Bilbo takes his hand, though it feels a little ridiculous, and is immediately cheered as Bofur laces their fingers together and squeezes.

“The mint,” Bilbo says suddenly. “Did you nick that from my garden?”

“Well, it wouldn’t be a proper visit if I didn’t help myself, would it?”

Though Bilbo’s eyes are closed, and he’s drifting into sleep, he can hear the smile in Bofur’s voice.

-

Bombur is not particularly surprised that Bilbo and Bofur are up and about at the same time, and though Bilbo is red to his ears when he notices a series of bite-bruises barely hidden by the collar of Bofur’s borrowed dressing gown (which is entirely too small for him), no one else seems concerned. Bilbo feels as if the air itself has changed, which he knows is unlikely, but still he keeps busy and tries to settle the warring feelings of delight and sorrow.

Bifur stands by him and nudges him with his shoulder, muttering fervently, and though he hasn’t a hope of understanding, Bilbo sets down his toast and listens.

Bombur takes him into the east hall.

“Bofur’s a good lad,” he says, looking solemn. “And I’m glad to see him happy at last. He wouldn’t stop talking of you, you know.”

Bilbo says nothing.

“There’s not much that could take me away from my brother,” Bombur continues, “and it’ll be a rough going without him. You’ll keep him safe, burglar?”

“I will,” says Bilbo, and swallows. He has always liked Bombur, and the hand on his shoulder strengthens him.

“It’s not easy, choosin’ between homes. I don’t think we’ve come all this way for naught. But... it’s a long way, so—I don’t think we’ll be so far.”

“You mean—?”

“Mm.”

-

They say goodbye to Bifur and Bombur, and with a glance at his face, Bilbo realizes how much Bofur is letting go. Bofur is quiet for the rest of the day, but he welcomes Bilbo into his arms, and they sit in the garden facing the road until the midges drive them in.

-

Bilbo catches himself staring sometimes, usually with an unconscious smile. He remembers Bofur waking up in the wild, but memory never substitutes—the light is different glowing through the windows of Bag End, and there was never a cup of such richly-scented breakfast tea steaming between Bofur’s work-roughened hands.

“Didn’t think I’d be back, did you?” Bofur asks him. Bilbo tears his gaze away from the fall of unbraided hair over his muscular shoulders, and realizes Bofur really means to ask him.

He thinks of the riches of Erebor.

“I never expected anything that hadn’t been promised. I think I’d given up my hopes without ever really hoping them.”

“I understand.”

Bilbo munches his sausage links.

“It’s not far to the Blue Mountains,” Bofur says, haltingly, and fiddles with his pipe. “My old mum—she’d be glad of the company.”

Bilbo’s ears twitch. _Bifur and Bombur too_ , he thinks, assuming that Bofur has been told. “She wouldn’t disapprove, then? I’m hardly hairy enough above the ankles.”

“You’re perfect,” says Bofur. And there are weeks before they plan to set off, but Bilbo spends his day preparing for the road.


End file.
